Coffee Crushes- A Valentines Special

I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: There are only three reasons we will remember your drink.

 

1- You’re in so often, and such a victim of routine that we’d have to be brain dead not to.

2- You’re a vile human being who has made our lives such hell that we recognise what drink to serve you in our sleep, when you arrive in our dreams wearing horns and a tail.

3- You’re wonderful.

 

Just as a horrible interaction with a mean customer can seriously fuck with your day (after being shouted at I will usually get the next six orders wrong in some way) a lovely exchange with a nice customer can keep your sanity intact for a good few hours. Especially if they’re cute

We all have them, our favourite customers. Mostly, they’re based on people we like having a chat with, who make us laugh, say please and thank you, give us a little tidbit about their day that we can talk about. Because otherwise, we have to talk about the weather. And I hate talking about the weather, it’s farcical. And overdone. And boring.

So having a little chat about your plans for the day is nice. Also, when Christmas comes around, and the painfully nice customers have sent us a card, or bought us a box of choccies, we know that we’re appreciated. So you guys become favourites too. We’ve very buyable.

And then there’s the crushes. The ones who we look forward to coming in, because they perk up our day (and always seem so surprised that we remember their drink) and yet we also dread it, because we are SO UNCOOL. It’s also painfully obvious when you’re way nicer to your favourite customer than the one before. Awkward.

I’ll get this straight- we don’t want to date you. I mean, we might, if the situation arose, but then it could go bad, and where would you go for coffee? It would send you hurtling into the ever-waiting arms of the baristas at Bosta, and that’s just not right. No, we’d much rather see your cute face, garble something that’s meant to be conversation but actually just turns out to be words that don’t string together, until you smile through the awkward silence. And then, thank goodness, your coffee is ready, and off you go.

But maybe you made a little joke, or you were wearing a particularly humorous t-shirt that day. And that is enough, in our little coffee monkey lives, to make it through the wilderness that is caffeine provision, and the inevitable abuse that comes with it.

So thank you, coffee crushes, be you young, old, male, female, witty, sullen or so, so stupid. Thanks for stopping by. And have a very nice day!

 

NOTE: Not quite enough anger for you? Stay tuned for an extra angry update this week!

Why Facial Expressions are Not The Same as Adjectives, and Other Problems

There’s been an endless rush of people doing this recently. They buy a new drink, go away, taste it, and the come back (usually by hovering around the till instead of queuing behind the ONE person who’s already ordering, like a polite human being) until I look up.

Then they say:

‘There’s something wrong with this drink.’

‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry, what’s wrong with it?’

‘Oh, it’s just a bit... INSERT RANDOM FACIAL EXPRESSION HERE’

Um. Okay. The first time this happened I just opened and closed my mouth a few times before spluttering:

‘Uhhh…um, okay, so what you’re saying is...’

They replied:

‘It’s just a bit…you know…INSERT DIFFERENT RANDOM FACIAL EXPRESSION’

‘Right…so it’s…bad?’

She then adopts a superior attitude and starts baby talking.

‘Ye-es…it’s ba-ad.’

 

Is the size wrong, Natalie?

Oh, well good to know you’re so comfortable with the mono-syllabic words that you can drag them out, but how about giving me a fucking vowel, here?

 

‘What’s exactly wrong with the drink, madam? Is it the temperature? The taste? The texture?’

See all these words I’m using? They’re ways of describing things. So if I was to say ‘this woman is really stupid’, stupid would be the adjective. See how this works?

 

 

‘It’s the taste!’

Aha, we have hit on SOMETHING. Even if it’s one of the least definitive things ever

‘It tastes a bit…RANDOM FACIAL EXPRESSION’

 

Too spicy?

Oh sweet lord, have mercy.

‘Would you like me to remake the drink, madam, or would you like a different beverage?’

‘I want something else, something that tastes more...GUMS MOUTH SEVERAL TIMES.’

 

Something that tastes more like a dog salivating over a sausage? Oh, okay, I’ll see what I can do. Would you maybe like something that tastes like half an eye-roll, three quarters of a smirk and a ding-dong noise? I could work on that for you.

 

Would you prefer decaf, Mr President?

For the love of baristas everywhere…USE YOUR WORDS. If it doesn’t taste right, then fine, get them to remake it. Or maybe you should have taken Food Tech at school where they made you sit around for hours exploring the use of words like bitter, sweet, savoury, spicy, strong, weak, tangy etc.

On the other end of the scale I had a woman who made that face, and then explained the drink was ‘vile. It’s just vile.’

‘What’s vile about a regular latte, madam? Is it bitter? Too strong? Did you want a sweetener in there?’

‘It’s just VILE, and I NEED you to do something about it.’

 

Possibly that something is only serving customers who are able to cultivate enough of a vocabulary to properly assess a situation and explain what the problem is without reverting to melodrama. I should just give up and go work with monkeys. I’m sure monkeys could tell me why the coffee was wrong. Without using any words. And I’d probably understand them perfectly.

 

 

...or squirrels?

The ‘Hot Lid’ Fiasco

This was a problem quite a lot in my old store, where customers had so much money that they were not accustomed to following instructions. A bit like buying IKEA furniture, and deciding you could put it together yourself. It all looks very pretty at the end, but there’s a screw missing. And then it collapses, and you curse the manufacturer, because it couldn’t possibly be your shoddy handiwork. Because you’re important.

In fact, that analogy fails, simply because this customer is not the kind of woman who does anything for herself. She has her nails done for her, her legs waxed for her, her coffee made for her. She probably had a caesarean because pushing out her spawn was too much trouble.

She has appeared in this blog before, and we commonly know her as ‘medium-mocha-frap-in-a-large-cup-extra-cream’. I have moaned about her trying to rip us off by essentially stealing whipped cream, and then causing such an earache when we try to explain that she should pay for half a cup of whipped cream, that we let it go. Because my hearing is fairly precious to me. As is my sanity.

 

Now, we don’t know her as ‘the annoying mocha frap woman/whipped cream bitch’. Now we know her as ‘that evil hag.’

If you type 'evil coffee hag' into google, this is what you get.

The following occurred, unusually not to me, but to a fellow barista, who handled it with flair. I instead cranked the ‘Cheerful Barista’ reader ALL THE WAY TO 11. Mainly to prove to customers who came after her that we’re really nice people, and she’s a douchebag.

She orders a caramel macchiato and a small hot chocolate. She normally gets this caramel macchiato ‘to stay but in a takeaway cup’ (sidenote: I don’t care where you’re having your drink. I just want to know in which type of receptacle you require it. I do not need a whole story about how ‘the paper ones keep them warmer’. We’ll all have to deal with our recycling demons one day. Your day will come.) but she didn’t say it this time. And she saw me writing it down and placing the note on one of our new shiny china mugs. So I assumed she, like many others, is interested in novelty value. Because she’s that kind of vapid bitch.

She then does that thing that drives me CRAZY. Waits quietly whilst the whole order has gone through and has started being made before she goes: ‘Oh that should be skinny.’

Cue the barista throwing away a jug full of perfectly good milk. Not at all passive aggressively.

Then she comes back. ‘Oh, those should be take away cups!’

Cue barista throwing the ready made drinks out of the mugs and into the sink. Not at all passive aggressively.

I’m also trying to serve a few OTHER PEOPLE WHO EXIST IN THE WORLD, so she’s kinda stopping me from doing that.

‘Oh, and I want cream on the hot chocolate.’

‘NOT a problem Madam!’ gritted teeth.

The barista puts the caramel macchiato down without incurring any sort of wrath. Then he puts the lid on the hot chocolate. AND THIS SHIT GETS REAL.

‘WHAT are you DOING? I don’t WANT a lid!’

Wow, the drama quote in your life must be super-low right now, if this gets you riled.

‘I’m afraid it’s store policy, we have to put lids on hot drinks.’

‘BUT THAT’S RIDICULOUS!’

Is it, is it really? You handing a hot drink to a young child and then suing the shit out of us when he burns himself….sound at all like the manipulative work of a middle-class bitch like yourself?

‘That may be so, madam, but those are the rules.’

‘Maybe they’re just YOUR rules.’

Yes, baristas love their work so much they spend time making up pointless rules for individual customers to follow. If that was the case, the rule here would be ‘Under no circumstances serve this dumb bitch.’ But no, we have no rules.

‘LOOK, YOU’VE SQUISHED THE WHIPPED CREAM DOWN!’

If you liked it then you shoulda put a lid on it.

Sweet, merciful coffee god, in the name of all that is caffeinated, please remove this woman from my immediate vicinity, before I lose my shit. My voice gets an octave higher and infinitely more cheerful (think Minnie Mouse) as I greet the next customer, who looks rather frightened by my enthusiasm.

‘I’m sorry, those are the rules. I’m not going lose my job over a….lid.’

Anyone else sure the end of that sentence was going to be ‘whipped cream bitch’?

‘WELL, put it in a regular mug! Did you HEAR ME? A REGULAR MUG!’

I’ll show you a fucking regular mug…when you look in the mirror. That’s right, I went there. Ooh, burn.

The loud cow then obstinately walks over, dumps the poor kid with this mountainously creamy hot chocolate (which she proceeds to eat- that skinny macchiato working out well for you there?) and then actively encourages her son to play loud music from her iPhone. Is there anything ruder than playing music on a phone in public places? Isn’t that reserved for chavs on the back of the bus? The worst part? She only had THREE songs, so he kept repeating them. Two of those three songs were Michael Buble.

 

She then kept shooting weird death glances over to us to see if the music was annoying. Erm, duh. Yes. Yes it was. She then left, and we knew there was going to be carnage left in her wake. It was like a coffee death scene. Ripped sugar packets, crumbled cookie, shredded lids and spoons sticking to the table with left over whipped cream and spilt milk.

So there’s another customer we’ll be running away from next week. Because, you know, we make up the rules about that.

VIPs: Very Irritating People (Or, Why People on Phones are Bastards)

Can it possibly get any ruder than someone trying to order whilst they’re still on the phone?

I miss these days...big phones, and Michael Douglas still made watchable films

Especially when they answer/call someone during the ordering process? So then I have to mime out questions (there’s a few other hand gestures I’d most certainly like to use instead) and point to different sized cups until they nod. Or usually, wave away my questions with a shrug and a fluttering manicured hand, only to complain very loudly when the drink they’ve received is incorrect.

This is dumb. And rude. People who do this, listen closely: You are not that important. You are not special, you are not ‘in demand’. Unless it’s a doctor telling you that the heart surgery you’re scheduled for is about to happen, or your university application forms haven’t gone through, or it’s your kid at home telling you someone is breaking in downstairs, I DON’T CARE.

It’s about old-fashioned consideration. Which perhaps only happens in places where there aren’t mobile talking devices. If you want to text and permanently ignore that I’m a human being and not just a coffee retrieval device akin to a talking vending machine from the future, that’s fine. As long as you can cogently get your fucking order across and let me do my job.

So there’s one customer who comes in on the phone, walks straight up to the bar and makes a desperate motion for pen and paper. Thinking perhaps that she needs to write down a helpline for people with lifelong rudeness problems, and is looking for a local support group, I oblige. She then WRITES DOWN HER ORDER and carries on talking. And of course, she forgets the ‘here or takeaway’ ‘which size’ and a bunch of other questions that customers never realise are necessary. So I again have to do the ‘Guessing The Specifics Dance of Death’. Which looks moronic.

Now this doesn't make me want to puke. This is NOM. But this is not what irish cream coffee smells like.

Now, she’s a regular, so I would probably let her off. Except for the fact that she has an Irish Cream latte. At nine in the morning. Which smells like whisky. Which makes me want to vomit. Thanks. I really needed you ignoring me, and then making me dance the coffee monkey dance, and then making me want to puke. Awesome. This has been a wonderful encounter that’s enhanced my day, and truly made me feel that minimum wage I get for being here is completely worth it. Thanks.

She’s not even the worst, though. Sure, there’s the pinched-face bitches who think they’re so important because their manicurist is on the phone, asking to change their appointment, who make more and more outlandish faces as I suggest drinks for them to shoot down, until I eventually get the right one.

Possibly the only people I would accept this behaviour from

If your daily dose of caffeine means so little to you, then stop ordering stupidly complicated things and expecting me to understand your little one-act play of ‘This is what my face looks like when I drink my drink.’

Anyway, onto the worst. I’ll start with a disclaimer: I am not a man-hater. I’m a feminist, an egalitarian, and generally, I know a lot of nice men. Some of them like football. So it’s not about that. But this guy was the biggest Big Male Response Cliche of all time. So know that when I write this, I think HE is a massive tool. But the rest of you, you’re okay. For the most part.

He wanders up to the counter on the phone, and stands there, talking away, not making eye contact, until eventually my frustration causes me to throw my arms up in the air in a ‘what the hell do you want?’ sort of gesture. (It’s okay, I was smiling my coffee-monkey smile. You know, the one that’s held up by staples, gaffer tape and self-loathing.)

He then stands there, the phone still to his ear and says:

‘Hmm…I’lllll haaaaaave…..I’llll haaaaave…..Hmm…I’lll haaaave…’

I’ll spare you the repetition, this went on for approximately seventy-five seconds, whilst I bit my tongue to stop me from screaming out ‘WHAT? WHAT DO YOU WANT? WHAT?’

I’m assuming the person on the other end of the phone would be in the same position.

He orders a medium cappuccino to take away, thank goodness.

And then he LEAVES THE QUEUE. As in, he suddenly carries on his phone conversation, and walks back to the pastry case, where he briefly inspects the paninis, and then stands staring into thin air.

There are five people in the queue behind him, waiting to be charged at my till.

So in the interest of fairness (or just that I was briefly shocked into stunned silence- doesn’t happen often) I give him thirty seconds to find a panini. Except that he’s not looking for one. He’s just standing there. Talking about the BLOODY FOOTBALL.

Hardly a business call worth holding up five people, who all have equally important things to be doing.

So, after sharing a variety of incredulous stares with staff and customers alike, I call over to him.

‘Sir, if there isn’t anything else, would you mind coming back here to pay for you drink?’

He then does the single most infuriating thing I may have ever experienced. He puts his finger to his lips, makings a ‘shh’ing gesture, and tells me to wait a minute. Luckily enough, I didn’t have a rage blackout, as I thought I might, but instead erupted into hysterical giggles, which was probably safer for everyone.

Phone bastards. I hope he’s paying too much for his contract and his football team lost. There. Hah.

We, The Enablers (Or, How to Stop Being An Attention Whore)

We, The Enablers.

 

Sometimes, I think of myself as a drug dealer. Because really, that is what I am. Sure, I’m a legal drug dealer, just as the bartenders and off-licence lackeys are. But ultimately, I’m an enabler. And Christmas is the best time to see this.

Because people get really excited about whether or not to add gingerbread to their normal drink. They go ga-ga for whipped cream. And they dope themselves up on caffeine and sugar to make it through the holiday period.

Now, I make it sound like a bad thing, but enjoying a cup of coffee is fine, but in this New Year, maybe it’s time to question some of your habits. Why do you NEED your espresso macchiato to be ‘bone dry’? Is it really just that it’s how you like it, or is it that making a barista create something that only you have makes you feel a bit special?

Have you considered that perhaps it’s not the coffee itself that you are addicted to, but that feeling you get when we greet you, and instead of calling out the drinks order, just call out your name, because we all know how you like it? Doesn’t that give you a little thrill, a rush of power?

If this is the case, I regret to inform you that you’re probably an attention whore. We’ll put up with it until you start requesting copies of Da Vinci paintings on your Flat Whites, and then you’re out of here.

Do you really like the taste of that triple-shot, extra-hot-soya-wet-cappuccino? Or do you just like the way it rolls off the tongue, in that second of release, defining you as a person? A person who knows about their kind of coffee, who is special, not only for ordering a disgusting drink, but for being one of the few people who can actually say it?

Do you think it endears you to us? Do you think we go ‘Oh, yay, it’s that lady with the half-eggnog, half-soya again! I do so love getting two disgusting milk substitutes on my face! Yay! She’s so clever, with that clever drink!’

 

Maybe, in 2012, when you go through that inevitable breakdown that will happen if we just once can’t create the drink you need, you might examine your priorities. Why does it matter? Why is it so very, very important for you to be so special in a coffee shop? Why do you have to specialise everything, personalise it to you? You go into a restaurant and order one meal, but substitute everything, don’t you?

 

I need you to realise something: you’re high maintenance. And if you continue to be so, not only will you understand that you’re not at all made special by your continual customisation, but that no-one will ever love you.

Especially not your barista.

So think about that, would you? In the spirit of existential crises, and caffeinated beverages, and for everyone’s sanity. Just…stop being a dick, okay?

If I’m Shouting, You’re Not Listening.

 

Some would say this blog is an extension of the fact that I am an unheard barista. The ignored voice expressing the plight of the everyman. You know, something nice and metaphorical like that.

But quite literally, no-one can hear me. I shout! I do! But you try balancing two milk jugs timing four and a half shots and adjusting the blender whilst screaming (politely) for someone to own up to ordering a fucking panini.

I don’t know about you, but when I go to a coffee shop (which to be fair, outside of work, is now very rare) I have gone for a purpose. I have paid for something I wish to consume. So I’m pretty bothered by whether or not it turns up.

Here is how it should go:

 

I order a heated wrap.

I pay.

I sit down.

I hear a barista announcing said wrap is ready, and I happily claim it so that I might immediately consume it.

 

This makes sense, yes? So why do people insist on ordering things, and then making me walk around the shop wailing the name of their sandwich and making uncomfortable eye contact with people who would much rather leave me alone?

I then return with the unclaimed sandwich, put it on the side, call it out a few more times to no avail. Lo and behold, five minutes later I get a ‘why haven’t you brought my sandwich yet? It’ll be cold now!’ (Assume a whiny, irritating-as-hell voice here)

It happens with drinks, too. People seem to forget that there was a queuing system when they ordered the drink, so there’s probably a queuing system in the making of it.

 

So when I shout:

‘Medium gingerbread latte to go’

and they reply

‘is this a gingerbread latte?’

and I say

‘yes’

they then take the drink.

 

They open the lid, throw some sugar in, take a sip, then say:

‘I don’t think this is my drink.’

‘It’s a gingerbread latte.’

 ‘I ordered a regular latte.’

Yes, that’s why you shouldn’t have taken that one. Which I now must throw away, and make a new one before I can hand over yours. Because there’s a SYSTEM. One which you’ve just fucked up by the way, thanks. Considering how English people are so good at queuing, it’s amazing that they have such trouble with the concept that they’re not the only person in the world sometimes.

Why don’t you listen? Why? Is it me? Am I actually saying it in my head? In a different language? Is my enunciation lacking? Or perhaps is it that you think anything I put on the hand-off point must be for you, because you are so special?

 

One of my favourites is when I shout out:

‘Medium Latte’

And the eager beaver standing there simply says ‘No!’

Like I’m a moron. No, actually. You’re the moron. I’m not assuming this is yours, you’re just hogging the drinks-retrieval area, and pissing off other customers as well as myself.

A special one this week was the man who made me scream out four times ‘Grande skinny Americano-one-shot-decaf-two-shots-regular’. (You try – it’s not easy!) And then I simply left it on the side.

Then he ambles over and angrily asks ‘Is this my drink then?’

‘It’s a grande-skinny-Americano-one-shot-decaf-two-shots-regular, sir.’

‘Yes, that’s mine.’

‘Well then, feel free to take it, Sir.’

I am making fifteen other drinks, I do not have time to confirm whether or not you know what you ordered. Fuck off.

‘Well you could have TOLD ME you’d made it. GOD.’ Hearing an old man emphasise certain words like a teenage girl is rather disturbing, let me tell you.

Normally I’d let it go and bitch about it here, but I replied with a ‘I called it out MULTIPLE TIMES, SIR!’ 

When really what I wanted to say was the following:

‘I’m very sorry that the volume of my drink-announcements was not to your liking, but seeing as it’s the festive season, maybe you could go fuck yourself?’

 

I have a suspicion that if I did a search on all the times I used the f-word in this blog, my mother would be rather disappointed. Perhaps I’m not quite using the vocabulary instilled in me by an English Literature degree. But perhaps by gaining a literature degree, I should be making coffee for a living. What have you got to say to that, government officials? Because I’ve got some choice words for you, as well.

Don’t Go Chasing Waterfalls…Piss off and Bug Someone Else, Like You Used To.

 

I’m going to have to return AGAIN to the problem of hot water. Because really, some people get it, some people don’t. We’re not insured for hot water. Because it is free, and therefore we cannot be insured against it. And it is a bit burny. Which means it’s dangerous. Which means we need insurance so our LOVELY fuck-over-anyone-for-something-free customers don’t sue us. Without even buying a drink.

So another stick-up-her-arse-golden spoon-not-wedged-far-enough-down-her-oesophagus  type comes in. She wants hot water. No. Sorry.

‘I’ve had it before.’

This is steam. It burns. It also comes out of my ears when you insist on being a moron

So what? Not here.

‘I’ve had it before.’

Sometimes, just because things have happened once, doesn’t mean they happen again. Times they are a-changing. Roll with it. Also, your argument is illogical.

‘Well, I’m going to Bosta then! THEY’LL give me hot water. How do you like that?’

I like it very much. Very, very much. So much that I might send Bosta a Thank You card for getting your arrogant arse out of here, and a complaints card that they didn’t do it soon enough.

Also, why are you coming into a coffee shop to get hot water, you fucking cheapskate.

Also, you’re not going to outsmart us by asking for tea without the tea bag in it. She gets this smug smile on her face like she’s worked out E=fucking MC squared.

Then we tell her she has to pay for tea, even if she’s not using the teabag (duh). And watching the smile fall from her face was probably the only moment of enjoyment. Apart from when she tried slamming the door behind her. The automatic door. Quite frankly, I’m scared of what the dumb bitch could do with a cup of hot water.

 

Phew. Man that feels better.

 

(This post was written in typing, blinding fury at the end of a shift. Mainly because I was scared that by the time I’d driven home, I would have retained my composure and sense of perspective. And no-one here wants that, do they? They want my rage! So, hope you enjoyed!)

 

Happy Bloody New Year Indeed!

‘The Dreadful Parentals’

There were some fine contenders for Arsehole Customer of the Week this week, and it was a tough choice. Did I go for Mr ‘Aahm a Real Businessman, see, and you’re takin’ advantage of my good nature’? What about Mr (assume Gap Yah voice) ‘I just fucking love the brand, yah’? Or even that sour-faced bitch who’s just always a bit of a sour-faced bitch.

Nope, because what I had planned to write today got thrown out of the window when this happened.

 

‘The Dreadful Parentals’

 

Starting with ‘Mrs ME ME ME’

Also known as ‘That frappuccino bitch. You know, the one with the whole milk. Who brings her own plastic cup in. Looks like she’s got a stick up her arse and botox in her cheeks. Yeah, that one.’

 

To be fair, she would have merited her own post at some point, just because of her drink, which is this:

‘A grande in my own cup, decaf-triple-shot coffee frappuccino with whole milk, three pumps of sugar-free vanilla, four pumps of base, double blended, whipped cream on top…and could you put any left over into an extra cup for me. Cheers.’

 

Fucking. Kill. Me. Now.

She’s always been a bit uptight, especially since it ‘never seems thick enough’ and then I try to add ice she complains that I’m watering the drink down. Sadly, physics has not occurred to this woman. You put a lot of liquid in a blender, it doesn’t necessarily matter how many times you blend it, it’s still liquid. And EVERY time she tries to double check that I’ll do my darndest to make it thick. But HOW can I do that, when you keep adding liquid to a drink that has been created by what I presume are food scientists to reach the right consistency?

Yes, you’re very fucking special. You’re a unique snowflake who has a drink unlike any other. This also makes us hate you.

What’s worse is, today, she brought in her children. This was shocking in itself. Someone who has enough time to devote to making other people miserable through her drink choices usually doesn’t have time for children. What I’m saying is that she is not maternal. That is an understatement.

So she orders two medium eggnog lattes with whipped cream for her children. Firstly, what is it with people giving their children caffeine? Sure, when it’s hidden in a milkshake-type drink, of course. But a grown-up drink? Why?

Secondly, I have become convinced that every time a customer orders an eggnog latte, it’s because they hate me. They want to punish me for being such a horrible human being. That’s the only explanation. Eggnog sucks.

She then, in her annoying ‘chav with money’ (baaaaaabe) voice tells me she needs ‘the calorie leaflet thingy’. She’s been having wholemilk with whipped cream four times a week, I doubt she needs to start worrying about the calories now.

‘Naao, it’s my son. He’s diabetic, so I have to know how many carbs are in an eggnog latte, and how many in the cream.’

Erm. What? I’m no expert on diabetes, but surely it’s the sugar content you’re looking for. Is this all some desperate ploy to make your child lose weight? Convince him he has a life-long disease?

Also, you could have figured this out before you ordered. Or you would know about these things because, erm, let’s think…You’re his MOTHER. Most mothers tend to know what their diabetic kids can and cannot eat.

AND you ordered him an extra pot of whipped cream whilst you were waiting for us to figure it out. We are not carbohydrate calculators. If we were, we would probably be working in a juice bar, or a gym.  

Whilst this would have made me have a coronary usually, I’ve been rather relaxed. It’s Christmas! Also, this is just more strange than anything else. Was she lying about diabetes? Was she just dumb? Is diabetes really about carbs and I’m the stupid one? What is the meaning of life, and what the hell actually is eggnog?

None of these questions will be answered next week.

Onto the next mad bitch.

 

Mrs…I Don’t Even Know What

‘My daughter wants a little coffee…like, for kids’

I look down at the child. She appears to be about five.

‘Oh, you mean a babychino?’

She pauses, thinking deeply.

‘It’s warmed foam milk, like the top of a cappuccino, for kids.’

‘No! No, I want actual coffee. Black coffee, like mine, but in a small cup. Like an espresso cup.’

This is the madness that leads me to making a one-shot-decaf-black-Americano in a espresso cup. For a five year old. Her mother didn’t even ask for decaf. The little girl then asks for chocolate. The mother replies ‘No more sweets, you’ve already had enough today.’ It was nine in the morning. It’s entirely possible that this is a mum-type lie to stop a child eating rubbish. But in this case, I’m not so sure.

She then let the kid finish off the rest of her caffeinated Americano. After putting more sugar in it. What is WRONG with these people? Who WANTS a caffeinated five-year-old? Why not just give her a pint of Redbull and be done with it?

 

 

Mrs ‘MUM MUM MUM MUMMY MUMMY MUM’

 Finally, again returning to the mothers who bring in their children, buy them something sugary and then spend the rest of the time ignoring them, we have the demon children. It’s not their fault they’re demon children, they’re literally yelling for attention. And banging on the windows, laughing, screaming, scraping chairs, running back and forth and other things that make the little old lady in the corner suddenly cry out:

‘They’re savages! Savages!’

Here endeth the rant. Lock up your kids. Or your parents. And a little bit of advice, in this festive season? A child is for life, not just for Christmas. So try not to fuck them up too much as young children. That’s what the teenage years are for.

Mrs ‘Can’t Abide’ AKA The Sorry Tale of the Big-Mouthed Bitch

Some days are just bad days. Or rather, bad shifts. When you get the Friday afternoon, usually you don’t mind because your brain goes ‘ooh, Friday! It’s almost the weekend!’ Except when you actually get to the Friday afternoon, you realise that you were once again duped by your own excitement.

Friday afternoons suck. Mostly because the local school gets out early and we have pre-teens demanding frappuccinos and paying for them in ten pence pieces, but sometimes purely because people are dickheads.

An example of such dickheadery in the Friday rush is below:

 

Nice Old Gent: Hello, lads and ladies, I would like a medium Americano with a dash of milk, and the lady would like a cup of hot water, please.

Barista: Really, really sorry but we can’t serve hot water.

Nice Old Gent: Really? (We expect a sudden meltdown)

Barista: I know it seems stupid, but it’s company policy now.

Nice Old Gent: (long, terrifying pause)…Okay! No problem, I’ll just go see what else she wants.

 

He dashes off and we breathe a sigh of relief. An easy, understanding customer who is willing to compromise despite our pretty silly but justified policy? (The same as last week, you can see why we have this policy here.)
Except a lady suddenly bustles in and starts screaming drink orders left, right and centre, so my colleague starts writing them down on cups for me to make. Then the Nice Old Gent comes back, so my colleague asks if the lady could wait one moment whilst he finishes this other transaction. Holy shit did we not expect this.

 

Big Mouthed Cow: Why didn’t you TELL me there was someone in front of me? YOU PEOPLE always do this! I can’t ABIDE bad service, I just can’t abide it. That’s just me, you know? That’s something that just gets to me. You could have told me to wait, and then served him, and now you’ve made HIM uncomfortable. I just can’t DEAL with this TERRIBLE SERVICE. ALL THE TIME. I just CAN’T ABIDE IT. I CAN’T.

 

Wow, well someone has a word of the day calendar, don’t they? Or they just saw The Big Lebowski for the first time. In which case, they should be more relaxed. The Dude abides.

Whilst I begin loudly humming Christmas carols and saying THANK YOU SO MUCH to every customer who walks by, just to release the aggression, the Nice Old Gent comes around.

Nice Old Gent: So you really can’t serve hot water?

Me: No, I know it’s really stupid because we can serve tea, but it’s a new policy. Someone ordered hot water and then threw it in a barista’s face. She was scalded so we can’t give it out anymore.

Nice Old Gent: That’s so terrible! I completely understand! (How fucking NICE is this guy?!)

Nice Old Gent then leans in and whispers: I’d be bloody careful if I were you, love. That harpy behind me looks like the water-throwing type!

I then hand him his drink, he thanks me, then looks a bit scared.

Nice Old Gent: It’s definitely mine, isn’t it love? I’d hate to have taken hers, pretty sure she’d tackle me to the ground!

 

Oh sweet lord, you lovely, lovely man! You’re a wonderful human being who has transported me from that bitter sick feeling in my stomach to the understanding that all is right with the world! Merry Bloody Christmas, everyone!

So Can’t Abide comes around (and although I know it’s petty, she looked like what my favourite movie reviewer calls ‘A Big-Lipped Alligator Moment’) and starts on at me. She’s also ordered a fucking Eggnog Latte, one of the most annoying drinks in the world, due to the fact that it’s chemical structure is heavier, and therefore is difficult to aerate, and thus makes A FUCKING LOUD NOISE. Much like the woman who wants to drink it. She then asks for it to be half soya. If I didn’t know she was a tool before, I do now. Mixing egg and bean milk with extra-hot decaf espresso. Fuck right off.

 

To truly understand the Big Lipped Alligator Moment check out this site.

Me and my colleague then just stared in awe, unable to even find the words beyond sounds like ‘garble garble what the fuck?’

 

We then have about sixty-seconds of pure, beautiful peace, in which we find the innermost strength, deep down in the depths of our souls, fuelled by beauty, love and caffeine, to forgive the rude bitch. It’s Friday, it’s close to Christmas. She’s probably one day soon going to be found dead in her flat, slowly being eaten by her underfed chihuahua. And that, my friends, is what we call JUSTICE.

 

But she breaks this ‘goodwill to all coffee-drinkers’ thing we had going by walking up, pausing in the middle of the store and pointing at me.

‘YOU! We’ve spilled some apple juice on the floor. Come and clean it up.’

You think this dog is too cute to eat anyone. But he knows a bitch when he sees one.

Of course madam. Of course. Of fucking course, you pretentious arsehole with an inability to think of anything but yourself. I would LOVE to get down on my hands and knees whilst your children kick me in the face and call me ‘cleany lady’ whilst you suggest that perhaps I should get a mop. I suggest you get a personality transplant, toot suite.

 

(I know, I know. Cleaning up after clumsy children and lazy adults is my job. I do it willingly. But most people, especially mothers, tend to at least apologise, or try and wipe up a bit of the mess themselves. But if you told her that she would clearly reply: ‘Well, she’s getting PAID for it, ISN’T SHE?’ Which is a fair enough point for the Dragon Lady to make.)

So what can I say about all this except that it’s a standard Friday in December? Well, if I was smart I would have said the exact perfect thing in response:

Her: I can’t ABIDE bad service.

Me: Well, I can’t ABIDE people who treat those in the service industry like shit just to make themselves feel better about their empty, meaningless and ultimately lonely little lives…And adding soya to your Eggnog adds just as much fat, so enjoy wobbling around the sales, MADAM!

 

...Ehem, Happy Holidays....? Everyone! (Well, almost everyone. You know who you are.)

A Quick Rundown of Mundanity and Moronity.

(Yes, I know that’s not a word. I’m an English graduate. Yes, sometimes educated people make coffee. Shocking, isn’t it?)

 

So, upon returning to work, I was eager to notice how fucking annoying everyone is. Except sadly, they have for the most part let me down. People have been cordial, polite, happy. Excited about Christmas and happy to compromise. Stupidly happy to pay an extortionate amount of money for a festive-themed drink. Which, obviously, makes my job at the cafe easier, and my job at this blog much more difficult. Hmph.

 

Still, I managed to glean a few moments.

So I present to you:

 

Mrs ‘It’s Not Like This at Harrods!’

She seemed fine, mostly. Her granddaughter’s cuteness made up for her grating voice. And that tells you how cute that baby was. Nails on a freaking blackboard. Especially when deciding to buy a cookie for said granddaughter, and then insisting that the little girl carry the plate over to her granddad. Now generally, this is a pretty sweet but anxiety-ridden moment, watching a four-year-old toddle along holding a china plate with a cookie the size of her head. Except the grandma seems to need to tell her husband that the child is coming over.

‘TREVOR! TREVOR! SHE’S WALKING TO YOU, TREVOR! WATCH OUT, SHE’S WALKING! HOLDING A PLATE! A PLATE!’

Of course she’s holding a fucking plate, you just gave it to her. Also, poor Trevor (who I assume has probably suffered irreparable ear damage, just as I have) was only standing slightly behind her. That’s a lot of unnecessary name-calling. Even if it is his actual name.

She then proceeds to order, change her mind, reorder, forget what she’s ordered and start all over again. This is fine, she’s an old lady, I’m not agist. But here’s the kicker: she asks for a cup of hot water.

Our health and safety does not allow for us to hand out hot water (you can understand why here) so I offer her tea (yes, I realise putting a teabag in the cup does not negate the fact that I would be handing her a cup of hot water). She doesn’t drink tea (what a sad existence). She then requests ‘hot water, with a few thinly cut slices of fresh lemon.’

Um. What?

I guffaw back that we don’t have any fresh fruit available beyond bananas. And I wouldn’t want to put them in hot water.

‘You’ve no lemon?’ She’s aghast! Could it be, a coffee shop that doesn’t serve non-calorie, non-caffeinated, not-really-a-drink, drinks? For shame.

‘Well, okay then.’ She sighs deeply, about to compromise. I tell her our camomile tea is lovely (bleugh). She reinforms me that she doesn’t like tea. I am clearly a cretin.

‘Well, how about hot water with some fresh mint?’

I’m sorry, how is fresh mint a step down from lemon? I know, I’ll go and pick it from the rooftop herb garden that I keep for just such occasions. And also, gross, steamed mint in a cup. I resist pointing out that we have mint tea, which is in fact, mint in hot water.

‘I SUPPOSE I’ll just go without a drink then!’

Oh great, I’m supposed to feel guilty because you’re high maintenance? How is that fair? And all I could think was poor, poor Trevor. He’ll have to hear all about her terrible ordeal with the lack of mint. Probably at close range and high volume.

 

Mrs ‘I KNOW ABOUT THESE THINGS’

Occasionally, we get drinks wrong. Or rather, to defend my barista family, we make drinks the way we’re told, and you like them a specific way that does not always coordinate with our training. You picky bastards.

But for the most part, if you think a cappuccino is a bit too fluffy, or the latte’s not got enough coffee in it, we’ll fix it, with a smile and an apology (even though it’s clearly your fault for being so demanding). However, it’s all in the way you say it. Because when we explain why we’ve made it that way, there’s one thing you can reply with that may be the most infuriating thing in the world. It is a red flag in front of a bull:

 

‘Well, I’ve been having them for years, and I’ve never had one like that. So it’s clearly wrong.’

Oh really? Wow, you’ve been drinking that for years, have you? And have you measured the consistency, caffeine-levels and foaminess of each one? That’s a lot of effort. Wow, you sure are a coffee connoisseur, we should hire you to stand over us and let us know when we’re fucking up a cappuccino.

You’ve been drinking them for years? I’ve been making them for years, who do you think has a better concept of how the fucking drink is made correctly?

 

Speaking of Understanding Your Mouth, there are things like this:

 

‘I hope you make it better today, the last one tasted like water.’

How on earth does it taste like water when it is made from milk, coffee and caramel syrup? Maybe you should stop smoking and you’d be able to taste the fucking thing.

 

‘Where’s the coffee in this?’

Erm, in the mug with the remainder of your drink, that is, the tiny droplet of milk you left in the bottom before complaining about it. Which leads me to assume that the coffee left the mug at precisely 3.15pm, where it then travelled in a vertical direction down your oesophagus. I therefore believe your phantom espresso shot is in your stomach. Ah, the powers of deduction.

 

‘This doesn’t feel heavy enough’

It is.

Drink it. Taste it. It’s good. It’s the exact weight a cappuccino should be. I can weigh it for you. If you try judging your drinks with your mouth instead of your hand, it’s a much more pleasing experience.

 

In Other News:

Today included a Pointer, who decided saying ‘Pan Au Raisen’ or even ‘that swirly pastry thing with the raisins’ was too much. So he just jabbed his finger against the glass for five minutes whilst I interjected with ‘this one?’ until he eventually said ‘yes’ instead of ‘no’.

A woman seriously asked me this:

‘Could you stop the automatic door from opening every time someone walks in?’

 

Well, then it would cease to be an automatic door, and become simply a door. Its sense of identity would be lost, as well as its meaning in life, and it would kill itself out of desperation. And we like our door. It confuses customers who can’t figure out how to open it. Here’s a clue: It’s automatic. And there’s a big fucking button.

Short answer:

‘I’m very sorry Madam, we can’t stop the door from being automatic. It’s not its fault it’s different. You could move to sit someone else.’

‘THERE IS NOWHERE ELSE!’

‘Well, that’s a very bleak outlook on life you have Madam.’

 

So, that’s it for now, I promise to be more scathing next time, instead of mildly philosophical and quietly amused. In fact, I can guarantee it. Fucking Eggnog lattes. What the hell is eggnog? Why do we add it to coffee? Why is there no alcohol in it? What kind of disgusting things do the people who enjoy them eat? These and other questions answered next time, on Cafe Disaster.